There’s a look a boy gets when he’s been shot or a… or a land mine takes off his legs, and he’s laying there in the mud, trying to get up, ’cause he doesn’t feel it yet. His brain hasn’t caught up with the reality, which is… he’s already dead.
The past can no more become the future than the future can become the past.
Sometimes the answer is so obvious you can’t see it because you’re looking too hard.
Some career advice. A whore’s life is five good years, five bad years, and then some half-d*ck sweat stain grinds you out like a cigarette. Like a goddamn spent cigarette.
Outta my way, tool of the state, for I am come to comfort and counsel my client, even as you seek to prison him.
Now I must bid you all adieu and admonish you to watch your proverbial butts, for I shall be back with a sledgehammer of justice prepared to lay Joseph waste to these four walls if you so much as touch a hair on my client’s.
It doesn’t matter what you mean. It’s what you do.
If the goal is to kill those who oppress you, what does it matter who goes first?
I’m the one who found the gun, so I think you’re dancing with the wrong girl.
Hold on now. We’re allies, like Hô Chí Minh and the Red Chinese.
Great Caesar’s ghost.
Eggs are done. Pancakes are warmin’ in the oven. You can fight me on “Are we gonna stay the night?” Or you and the kid can grab a plate and see why they call me “The Breakfast King of Loyola.”
